you. She wants you to stop by her office as soon as you arrive.”
The cloud over Ivy’s desk wafted into her office. She pushed the intercom button. “Ivy, I need to see you.”
“Sure.”
Ivy hurried into Cynthia’s office, closed the door, and didn’t wait for a question. She talked fast, her Mexican accent becoming more pronounced in her excitement. “I arrived at eight-thirty and Margo was here.”
“Where?”
“At my desk, going through the folders sitting there.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” More clouds and now, the rumble of thunder.
“No.”
“She is so devious; wasn’t expecting you to get here early. What did she do when you arrived?”
“Oh, there you are, Ivy.” Said in such a perfect Bostonian/Latina accent that as peeved as Cynthia was right now, she still laughed. “‘I was looking for a client file. You delivered it on Monday and—wait! I remember . . .’ Then she rushed off, but not before I saw the red creeping up her neck. She knew she’d gotten busted.”
“What about Tracy? When did she get here?”
“I’m not sure what time she arrived.”
“Okay, Ivy. Thanks.”
“I’ll keep my eyes out for anything sneaky.”
“I appreciate it.”
After taking a moment to gather her thoughts, Cynthia reached for her coffee and left her office for the conference room. Outside, the sun blazed, its light streaming through the blinds. In the office, a storm was brewing.
Byron excused himself from being a bus passenger’s psychiatrist so he could answer his phone. Much like barber and beauty shops, one could hear some of everything while moving the masses from one place to the next. He was a good listener and had his father’s common sense, so Byron was told more than most.
After glancing at the cell phone screen attached to the dashboard, he tapped the answer button on his Bluetooth. “It’s about time you called.”
“Sorry, Uncle Byron, I just got your message.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“School!”
“Where else, and don’t lie.”
“Nowhere. I had to come home and get ready for my meeting with Cynthia.”
“Good. I’m glad you remembered.”
“Are you going to remember what you promised me when I graduate?”
“That’s not all you need to do to get a car.”
“And get into college, I know.”
“Don’t worry about that. My memory is fine. Look, I’m working. I need to jump off.”
“All right. Talk to you later.”
“Leah.”
“Uh-huh?”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
“Leah.”
“What?”
“I love you. Leah?”
She chuckled. “What, Uncle Byron?”
“Good-bye.”
A smile touched his lips as he ended the call. Memories of Leah, three or four years old, running and jumping in his arms. Dancing to Usher or Nelly’s “Hot in Here.” Full of life, that girl. Nothing but legs, hair, and a great big smile. And then her brother died. Changed everything.
“Should I take him back?”
“Huh?” Byron had pulled over to pick up passengers and now looked back at the woman who’d bared her soul. “Oh, I’m sorry, forgot what we were talking about for a minute.” He paused as several passengers got on. “I can’t tell you how to live your life. But I will say this. If a man can’t visit you in the daytime, you shouldn’t let him visit at night.”
His phone vibrated. At the next light, he looked down to see who’d called. Cynthia? No, the person who made him feel the exact opposite of how Cynthia did. The woman who could send his mood from fine to foul in less time than it took a streetlight to change. Byron had called her last night after being asked by a mutual friend if he was little Ricky’s father. Had she answered, he’d planned to demand that she stop spreading lies. Left alone with his own thoughts, he went back to yesteryear and that pregnancy’s timing. As much as he felt that Tanya was being untruthful, he had to admit the possibility of the worst possible outcome: that the child
The cloud over Ivy’s desk wafted into her office. She pushed the intercom button. “Ivy, I need to see you.”
“Sure.”
Ivy hurried into Cynthia’s office, closed the door, and didn’t wait for a question. She talked fast, her Mexican accent becoming more pronounced in her excitement. “I arrived at eight-thirty and Margo was here.”
“Where?”
“At my desk, going through the folders sitting there.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” More clouds and now, the rumble of thunder.
“No.”
“She is so devious; wasn’t expecting you to get here early. What did she do when you arrived?”
“Oh, there you are, Ivy.” Said in such a perfect Bostonian/Latina accent that as peeved as Cynthia was right now, she still laughed. “‘I was looking for a client file. You delivered it on Monday and—wait! I remember . . .’ Then she rushed off, but not before I saw the red creeping up her neck. She knew she’d gotten busted.”
“What about Tracy? When did she get here?”
“I’m not sure what time she arrived.”
“Okay, Ivy. Thanks.”
“I’ll keep my eyes out for anything sneaky.”
“I appreciate it.”
After taking a moment to gather her thoughts, Cynthia reached for her coffee and left her office for the conference room. Outside, the sun blazed, its light streaming through the blinds. In the office, a storm was brewing.
Byron excused himself from being a bus passenger’s psychiatrist so he could answer his phone. Much like barber and beauty shops, one could hear some of everything while moving the masses from one place to the next. He was a good listener and had his father’s common sense, so Byron was told more than most.
After glancing at the cell phone screen attached to the dashboard, he tapped the answer button on his Bluetooth. “It’s about time you called.”
“Sorry, Uncle Byron, I just got your message.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“School!”
“Where else, and don’t lie.”
“Nowhere. I had to come home and get ready for my meeting with Cynthia.”
“Good. I’m glad you remembered.”
“Are you going to remember what you promised me when I graduate?”
“That’s not all you need to do to get a car.”
“And get into college, I know.”
“Don’t worry about that. My memory is fine. Look, I’m working. I need to jump off.”
“All right. Talk to you later.”
“Leah.”
“Uh-huh?”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
“Leah.”
“What?”
“I love you. Leah?”
She chuckled. “What, Uncle Byron?”
“Good-bye.”
A smile touched his lips as he ended the call. Memories of Leah, three or four years old, running and jumping in his arms. Dancing to Usher or Nelly’s “Hot in Here.” Full of life, that girl. Nothing but legs, hair, and a great big smile. And then her brother died. Changed everything.
“Should I take him back?”
“Huh?” Byron had pulled over to pick up passengers and now looked back at the woman who’d bared her soul. “Oh, I’m sorry, forgot what we were talking about for a minute.” He paused as several passengers got on. “I can’t tell you how to live your life. But I will say this. If a man can’t visit you in the daytime, you shouldn’t let him visit at night.”
His phone vibrated. At the next light, he looked down to see who’d called. Cynthia? No, the person who made him feel the exact opposite of how Cynthia did. The woman who could send his mood from fine to foul in less time than it took a streetlight to change. Byron had called her last night after being asked by a mutual friend if he was little Ricky’s father. Had she answered, he’d planned to demand that she stop spreading lies. Left alone with his own thoughts, he went back to yesteryear and that pregnancy’s timing. As much as he felt that Tanya was being untruthful, he had to admit the possibility of the worst possible outcome: that the child
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